


Attachment Theory

by polite_warning



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Broken Bones, Fever, Gen, Guilt, Head Injury, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, Loss of Trust, Serious Injuries, Sherlock Whump, Surgery, Whump, learning to love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polite_warning/pseuds/polite_warning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Complications have damaged John's working relationship with Sherlock, and the great detective has gone off on his own and gotten into big trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Attachment Theory

 

Sherlock can’t feel his fingers.

 

The room is dimly lit except for the two hot lights that shine on him. As a result, he can’t see much beyond a span of about a metre and a half. The grey floor in front of him has splatters of his blood in random patterns, as does his shirt front. He’s taken to quiet stubbornness, rather than the taunting and ridicule he’d handed out hours and hours earlier. Somehow, he’s learned and internalised the lesson that three men milling freely about the room are all too happy to take out their frustration on a single man tied down onto a chair.

 

_John, where are you?_

 

He’s not going to give them any information. He’s not going to give them any satisfaction.

 

“If we thought you didn’t know anything, you’d be safe in your bed right now. But you do have information and you are going to talk.”

 

He’s taken to tuning them out. It’s only a matter of waiting now anyway. Waiting for someone to find him and take him away from this place. Or waiting for his assailants to get so frustrated that they just decide to kill him.

 

_John._

 

His fingers are numb. It could be that his arm is broken and some of his nerves have been injured as well. He also entertains the notion that the ropes binding his wrists are cutting off the oxygen-rich blood that is needed to keep his digits alive. He imagines that they have turned pale and discoloured by now, in either case.

 

_Crunch._ Another two ribs have broken. His focus splits and scurries between all the different sensations of pain, almost as though he doesn’t have the attention span to accommodate all the injuries. Something starts to twist inside his stomach, a pain like a knife through his spine, then a heavy, excruciating pain like he’s swallowed a big rock and it’s lodged in too small a space. For some reason, he shakes his head, mouth open in a silent scream.

 

A man laughs. “Are you crying? Just tell me what I need to know and I’ll call someone for you, yeah? Anyone you want from your contacts list. You just have to tell me.”

 

Hours later, strapped into an ambulance, Sherlock can’t remember what he said.

 

_____________________________

 

John remembers the day Sherlock began to distance himself. In fact, John remembers the minute.

 

None of their cases are simple, at least in John’s mind, but this one had been at least straightforward: a thief systematically stealing dusty old books from an old gent’s library, returning each night and taking them one at a time. But the details had intrigued Sherlock and lead to him staking out the library, hiding with John behind an armchair. Nothing in the thief’s M.O., according to Sherlock, had suggested that he would have been carrying a firearm.

 

He had, though, and a sudden gunfight ended with Sherlock toppling a bookshelf onto the hostile criminal’s legs while John sank to his backside, clutching at his hip. He wasn’t hurt, just grazed, but definitely shaken. Sherlock had the client call for police and an ambulance and he’d then rushed to John’s side, looking him over, checking him for shock, checking his pulse.

 

And John had just snapped. Why did Sherlock have to drag him along on his cases anyway? Why was Sherlock so willing to risk both their lives for a stupid case about missing books? Sherlock was welcome to take the next case _alone!_

And so he had. John had been unaware that there even was a case on until Sherlock’s name came up in the news. It made him do a double take. Sherlock had gone out on his own and taken down a woman who had killed two of her employees. Somehow, John hadn’t found a way to bridge the topic.

 

And then another case had happened without him and this one John would never have known about if Sherlock hadn’t come home with blood caked in his hair. And John, being a concerned doctor, had tended him, given him a lecture and sent him to bed.

 

He’d thought about dropping subtle hints that he wouldn’t mind going on the next one, that he’d like to be around to prevent the baddies from getting the drop on Sherlock. He’d even considered actually sitting down and _talking_ with Sherlock, but somehow, he never got to it.

 

So, now John goes to the surgery and Sherlock takes on mysterious cases without involving him. It’s miserable and John hardly sees his friend when he’s not depressed from boredom or manic and experimenting. It amazes him that this all came about because of a few thoughtless comments.

 

He doesn’t know how to fix it. John is too stubborn and much too proud right now to admit to Sherlock that he made a mistake, that he likes going on cases, and that he apologises for saying those things. Because he is right! Sherlock hadn’t given a second thought to the danger they’d both been in, had never apologised or done anything to show John that he regretted things. And now John isn’t even that sure whether Sherlock wants him going on cases anymore. He seems to be functioning pretty well on his own, operating much the way John imagines he did before they met. John hopes that soon he’ll come around.

 

Something happens before John gets his wish.

 

He’s throwing together a sandwich when a phone call comes through from Sherlock. John licks a bit of mustard off his thumb and answers, hoping that Sherlock is calling him to help with a case, perhaps needing his extensive (and systematic) knowledge of the human body.

 

“Hello?” he says, a bit confused at the pause that follows.

 

When the reply finally comes through, it’s faint but John can tell that Sherlock’s voice is shaking. “John, help.”


	2. Chapter 2

The hospital is out of coffee. The hospital is out of cups. The hospital is out of sugar. John buys himself a muffin and bottle of milk and has never been so dissatisfied with a hospital in his life.

 

It doesn’t help that Sherlock is here, hurt, unconscious, having surgery while John can only sit back and do nothing. Pretend that he wants the muffin in front of him.

 

Of course, from the beginning, John wanted to see him. He argued and nearly swore and he used his title and authority as a doctor to try bullying his way into his friend’s room. Sherlock had sounded so weak on the phone; weak and confused, giving John the impression that the thugs who had him had delivered a brutal beating.

 

He hadn’t been wrong on that account; the doctor who had spoken to John upon arrival had talked about broken bones, internal bleeds, nerve damage and more things than John could process at the time. Of course, he’d asked about head injuries, panicked that something might have happened to Sherlock’s brain. “Only a concussion,” wasn’t as comforting as it was meant to be.

 

John hangs his head, holding it between his hands. He should have been with Sherlock when he’d gone off on his case. He should never have snapped at him, he should have apologised, he should have insisted that Sherlock take _someone_ as backup on dangerous cases.

 

He puts the muffin and milk into the bin after having choked down a couple of bites to “keep his strength up,” as Mrs Hudson would say. He won’t take breaks that last longer than ten minutes, for fear that something will happen to Sherlock, that he will be needed to make a decision, to calm him down, to be at his side when he finally returns from surgery and wakes. Despite his fears, when he returns to reception, there is still no word, still nothing for him to do except worry and feel guilty.

 

And of course, he gets to relive the panic and confusion from the night before. Sherlock’s call had shot frozen arrows through his lungs and sent his heart hammering up against the walls of his chest. John had done his best to keep Sherlock calm and get him to tell as much as he could about his location (uncertain), about the people with him (no one), and about his injuries (very bad). Tied to a chair and babbling at the speakerphone, Sherlock had been enormously unhelpful, managing to frighten John and provide no useful information at the same time. Finally, John had been able to coax Sherlock into relaying his surroundings, the sights and sounds, _“It’s alright, Sherlock, I know it’s frightening, but you have to observe, you have to tell me what you can so I can come get you.”_ The location turned out to be much farther away than John had expected, so he’d contacted the local police and planned to meet them at the nearest hospital. As much as he’d wanted to be there to rescue Sherlock in person, it was more important that his friend get out of that place and get treatment for his injuries.

 

It’s during this flashback that a doctor who comes into the reception finally approaches John instead of one of the other dozen or so families waiting. John isn’t aware of him until he sees a pair of trainers stop in front of him and suddenly he’s gotten to his feet with no recollection of having told his muscles to do so.

 

“Family of Sherlock Holmes?” the doctor assumes.  
  
“Friend,” John corrects, immediately regretting it. If that happens to be the reason John isn’t allowed into whatever ward Sherlock ended up in, John will be kicking himself even more than he already is.

 

The doctor, whose named badge reads Matthew Hale, nods and goes on to tell John details of the surgical procedures to repair Sherlock’s internal injuries and his broken arm. Sherlock has been placed in an intensive care ward and is only to be allowed two visitors at a time for no longer than thirty minutes.

 

John immediately wants to argue with that. “I’m his doctor. His-his usual doctor,” he amends. “I would like to be part of his treatment team, to have unlimited access—”

 

Dr Hale politely interrupts, “We can decide on that in the morning, but for tonight he is my patient and the rules of the ICU apply. He will need his rest, as I’m sure you do as well. If you have any questions, you can get in touch with one of my nurses and they can reach my pager.”

 

The doctor gives John the information on Sherlock’s ward and room number and leaves in a different direction. John wastes no time in taking the lift up to Sherlock’s floor, hoping that if he’s quiet and non-intrusive, the nurse won’t have the heart to ask him to go after half an hour.

 

He is overwhelmed by the scene inside the small, private room. John’s muscles, which earlier moved of their own accord, are now in such opposition that John can’t seem to make them drive him forward. He stands just inside the door, his mouth a tight line and his fists clenched at his sides.

 

Sherlock’s skin is darkened by bruises, but the unspoilt patches that miraculously weren’t hit are paler than ever. He has wires and tubes going everywhere and John is sure that the sight of them would drive Sherlock to madness if he were awake and coherent. For a moment, John is imagining Sherlock tangling them up in an attempt to break free of it all.

 

The long white surgical bandage that spreads across almost the entirety of Sherlock’s midline snaps John out of his daydream, the distinct darkening from blood standing out. His arm is covered in a cast and John is starting to wonder how Sherlock could have been conscious enough to make that phone call.

 

He finally gathers the initiative to move, crossing the room in a few short steps. His friend is haggard— _black eyes, from the door, I thought they were just dark circles from exhaustion_ —and on ventilation, which John is sure will be regarded as most loathsome by Sherlock when he wakes. John moves a curl away from Sherlock’s eyebrow and reveals a patch of dried blood that has yet to be cleaned up. Wasting no time in getting a wash basin together, John bathes Sherlock’s forehead with a damp hand cloth from the linen cupboard.

 

In no time at all, Sherlock is at least clean and dry again and John fusses a bit with his bed sheets, wishing they weren’t so starched and crisp. Soon, there is nothing more that he can do except sit and wait, staring at his friend as a machine does his breathing, another machine administers medication, others monitor his heart rate and fluid output and blood pressure. John’s only remaining idea is to talk to Sherlock.

 

“You’re an idiot,” he says, the words flying out of his mouth before he’s thought about them. “Sorry. Sorry. You aren’t an idiot right now, Sherlock, I am. Really hope you can’t hear me.” John shakes his head, trying for coherence; he’s been waiting in reception of this hospital for quite some time, so his nerves are shot, and he didn’t get much sleep the night before either. “I’m sorry,” John announces. “I’m sorry that you’ve gotten hurt and I’m sure it’s my fault—and yours, obviously, but I shouldn’t have let you go off alone. I should have been there with you, even if it meant I’d get my arse kicked too.” He swallows. “At least you wouldn’t have been so alone.”

 

Sherlock just lies there, giving no sign that he appreciates John’s words or that he’s even listening. It’s typical not only of Sherlock’s moods to ignore John, but also of a recovering surgery patient. Still, it’s upsetting to John, who had somehow expected that his voice, his words would have mattered, would have done some good to help Sherlock wake up.

 

By John’s watch, he is allowed to sit by his friend’s side for a total of 46 minutes before a nurse raps softly on the door and asks him to leave. Visiting time is limited. The ICU patients must have their rest. He doesn’t have an ounce of argument in him and so John gets up and walks out of the ward.

 

Sherlock was found about two hours out of London and therefore brought to a hospital even farther from his home, so John makes the decision to rent a hotel room for the night. He wants to be close by if something happens, if Sherlock or the doctors need something; he wanted to be much closer by, but he won’t risk getting on the hospital staff’s bad side if he wants to arrange longer, continuous visiting hours and a great deal of say-so on Sherlock’s various treatments. The first night, Sherlock should be able to sleep all the way through without disturbance, so John doesn’t feel quite as guilty as he might have if he’d left Sherlock awake and alone.


	3. Chapter 3

The hospital is chaotic upon John’s arrival in the morning. Sherlock was moved during the night and his paperwork (in the computer) isn’t updated. So, he is given the instruction to wait while they sort it out.

 

Today, John’s strong suit is not in waiting.

 

The trick is to act like he belongs in the hospital, like he works there. If he doesn’t slow down, no one will ask him if he needs any help. John marches down the corridor, glancing sideways at every patient room he comes across, looking for ‘Holmes’ to be on one of the markers. When he gets to the end of the hall, he realises his error: Sherlock is no longer on this floor at all.

 

Heading back to the reception, he kindly asks, “Could you find one of Dr Hale’s nurses?” His smile is smouldering and the woman bats her eyelashes flirtatiously.

 

“Of course, just a tick.”

 

Dr Hale comes round the corner a few minutes later, holding out his hand to John. “Yes, you are Dr…?” John fills in the blank for him. “Of course. Yes, for Sherlock Holmes, I remember. Dr Watson, we had a slight problem last night…”

 

John is frozen. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe something went wrong with the room’s air conditioning or Sherlock woke up and refused treatment. Maybe.

 

Dr Hale seems to read John’s expression and says, “It’s a moderate fever coupled with the confusion of his head injury. He became quite combative and so we had to sedate him.”

 

He nods, absorbing every word like a knife sliding underneath his skin. “Can I see him?” he asks when the other doctor has finished talking.

 

With a hesitant nod, Dr Hale replies, “You can visit him,” emphasising _visit_ , “but he absolutely must have his rest, Dr Watson; your friend is very ill.”

 

John thinks that the experience of walking into Sherlock’s room the previous night has him prepared for anything. Spoiler alert: it does not.

 

This time, however, he crosses the room as quickly as he can, his hands grasping for the bed’s railing and then for Sherlock’s shoulder and then his hand. Sherlock is muttering frantically under his breath, sweat dotted on his forehead and glossy on his throat. He has his eyes closed, even after he seems to notice that John is there.

 

“Sherlock, it’s alright,” says John, “you’re safe, you’re in hospital.” He’s said the words a thousand times to fallen soldiers, delirious with fever or devastated by pain or loss of limbs. Some of them had been his friends, some of them had been strangers. Sherlock is the first casualty to ever make his voice crack like a 14-year-old’s.

 

“John,” Sherlock croaks, gazing up at the ceiling, unfocussed.

 

“Yes, yes, I’m here,” John replies. “It’s okay, you’re just hurt Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock cuts off anything else John wanted to say. “John, please…please, call John. Need to call John.”

 

John swallows a painful chunk of worry. He places the back of his hand against Sherlock’s cheek, getting a sense of his burning fever, even as he’s glancing at the monitor, which tells exactly what Sherlock’s temperature is.

 

“He won’t answer me,” Sherlock continues to ramble, his lips trembling whenever he takes a pause from speaking. “John, answer the phone, please don’t ignore me.”

 

John needs to get through to him. He takes Sherlock’s face between his hands, careful to place his fingers around the bruises, and tries to get his eyes to focus. “Sherlock, it’s me. I’m right here, look at me. Look at me.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes are glazed and he stares straight through John. “Let me try him again. He’ll answer if I try again—oh!” Sherlock’s body jerks to the side and the pain written across his twisting face is heartbreaking. He writhes for a moment as John tries to hush him and begs him not to make any movements like that again.

 

“He’s not coming,” Sherlock grinds out between his teeth. “John…”

 

“I’m here, Sherlock,” John insists, wiping at his friend’s face with a towel. “I’m here and I won’t leave you again.” Was this what Sherlock was like when he was in the hands of those thugs? Was he confused and hurting and begging them to let him use his phone? Was he begging for John?

 

Sherlock starts to quiet, every few seconds letting go of a soft sobbing noise, and then becoming still again. The struggling and pain have worn him down and the sedative starts to do its work to put him to sleep. When he is completely still and silent for an extended time, John sits heavily in the chair behind him, resting his forehead in his palms and taking a deep, sighing breath of relief. At the same time, he’s troubled by Sherlock’s lack of awareness, the way that he hadn’t recognised John or acknowledged that anyone was with him. It had been like witnessing a nightmare, only Sherlock had been awake and delirious with fever.

 

John begins to go about ensuring that Sherlock is as comfortable as he can be. He goes to the reception and gives the woman a list of a few things he needs: bandages, alcohol swabs, gauze. When he returns to Sherlock’s room, John calls for the nurse, asking her to change out the bed clothing that Sherlock has sweated through. She’s very quiet, eyeing John up almost suspiciously as she goes about the job and John makes the decision to take care of Sherlock’s linens on his own the next round.

 

He is reading over the details in Sherlock’s chart when the nurse returns with Dr Hale. John greets him and begins to ask him about Sherlock’s CT scan when the expression on the doctor’s face gives him pause.

 

“Dr Watson, I can sympathise with your wanting to take care of your friend yourself, and I know I would be doing the same in your position, but you are not a doctor at this hospital. You are a visitor and you must adhere to our visiting policies,” Hale says firmly.

 

John reacts calmly. “Listen,” he says, “I know much more about this man’s medical history than you could get from any chart. If I can work alongside you—“

 

Dr Hale interrupts, “We have very strict visitor policies at this hospital, Dr Watson. Not only that, but you are biased when it comes to this patient, _my_ patient, and as the lead physician on the case, I would be held liable for any issues that you might cause if I were to let you on as part of the treatment team.”

 

“I’ve been Sherlock’s doctor for years; just because we have a personal relationship doesn’t mean I’m going to let him--abuse narcotics or something!” he exclaims, wondering if the other doctor knows about Sherlock’s drug history. If he’d even bothered to look that far into the chart. “Yes, he’s my friend, but I assure you I’m not going to be a bother. If you don’t want me to treat him, fine, I’ll leave that to you. But I want to stay with him for longer than half an hour at a time.” John crosses his arms, rigid in his decision.

 

“This is an intensive care ward and my patient needs rest,” says Dr Hale, firmly. “He’s already dealing with a bout of fever and delirium. Dr Watson, I suggest that you adhere to our policies. Otherwise, you can be banned from visiting.”

 

John is seething angry. How dare this doctor, who looks about 20 years junior to John, try and dictate John’s access to the hospital? Rather than crack the man across the face and get arrested, John walks out of the room—his visiting time was up anyway, apparently—and takes a walk to try and cool off. John’s heart is pounding in his chest—high blood pressure—as he tries to think of something to fix this.

 

He thinks of phoning Mycroft. One call and Sherlock’s doctor will be reassigned to dish duty or sent off to South America or something. On the other hand, John knows that the problem can be solved without calling in the British government to intervene.

 

Perhaps Sherlock will be fine. Maybe what John saw earlier was just an exaggerated reaction, a bad combination of drugs, fever, and his injuries, and the next time Sherlock wakes, he will be himself, complaining about the wires and tubes and his _boredom_ and bothering the nurses until they send him off early.

 

Either way, John doesn’t want to see Dr Hale or his nurse for a while and so he goes to lunch, his hasty promises to his ill friend all but forgotten.

 

_______________

 

When John returns, he is prepared to deal with whatever resistance the hospital throws at him. He is even prepared to call Mycroft if he has to.

 

He turns the corner onto the ICU ward and something in the background noise becomes more and more perceptible. The sound is like yelling or maybe wailing and sobbing.

 

“Sherlock,” he whispers to himself, starting to hurry. It’s definitely coming from his room. Sherlock is yelling and John can hear a nurse’s raised voice as well. He’s running by the time he reaches the door.

 

The nurse—a different one from earlier—is trying to talk him down while another man is cinching Sherlock’s unbroken arm into a restraint.

 

John is at the bed in a blink of an eye. “What the hell is going on here?” he demands. “Why are you restraining him?”

 

“Sir,” says the man, “the patient was combative and aggressive and tried to get up from his bed after I insisted that he stay resting. He’s in no condition—“

 

“He’s in _no condition_ to be tied down to his bloody bed!” John snaps. He bullies the nurse out of the way and immediately unstraps Sherlock from the bed. Sherlock’s arm slinks away back to his chest protectively and John looks at his face for the first time since he barged in.

 

“Please let me call John,” he whispers, his eyes large and frightened.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lost the muse for a while, but I have nearly all of the next two chapters finished, so I may get it wrapped up soon after all.

He shivers. One of his arms is still tied down and the other feels too heavy to lift. His body is weighted down with exhaustion, it seems, and despite attempts at movement, he normally passes out again before he gets anywhere.

 

Sherlock’s throat is bone dry in the long periods between having room temperature water forced into his mouth. A disturbingly kind voice beckons him to swallow, which he wouldn’t do if he had a choice. He’s dehydrated and even if he were defiant enough to spit the water back out, it would just be replaced with more; the villain wants to keep him alive.

 

Time is nothing. He’s lost track of how long he’s been here. At last count, it was two days, but that could have been a week ago, or just a couple of hours. Something’s gone wrong with his brain and he realises that he’s been drugged. It will take a lifetime to get over narcotics again.

 

They’ve kept it so cold in the room. He thinks they might have doused him in water to weaken him, make him colder. The shivering and the nausea caused by his injuries and the drugs are more daunting than they have the right to be.

 

Didn’t he tell them what they wanted to know? Did he imagine that? Did he give away the information while they weren’t listening?

 

Sherlock tries again, speaking every secret he’d vowed to hold despite any torture. It won’t matter once he’s rescued and the police will have the witnesses and victims under protection, knowing Sherlock is missing.

 

_John._

Someone has grabbed his hand. Sherlock thinks he’s blindfolded, or maybe he just can’t open his eyes because of the drugs. They’re keeping his hand still and he expects to feel a searing, tearing pain at any moment, knowing that more torture is coming. Maybe they don’t believe he’s telling the truth.

 

He asks for John. John can straighten it out. John can make them believe he’s telling the truth.

 

_Please call John._

_Need to talk to John._

If they’ve called him, he’s not answering. Sherlock remembers why. He remembers the fight. John was so frightened and reactive and Sherlock didn’t want to see him like that again, didn’t want to put him through something so punishing again. He could handle cases on his own. He had done so for many years before John. He could keep John safe.

 

And as far as he knows, John is safe. But Sherlock is not and he’s too cold and it hurts, everything hurts and they won’t let him have John.

 

He must be being too loud because someone stabs him in the side to stop him.

 

_He’s not coming._

_John._

_Please let me call John._


	5. Chapter 5

John never has to call Mycroft; the British government turns up all on his own.

John is finally allowed to stay in Sherlock’s room, uninterrupted, unrestricted. As it reads in the document emailed to Dr Hale by Mycroft himself, it is _“in your patient’s best interest, not to mention your status as head of trauma, that Dr John Watson be allowed on premises at all times and be afforded the highest courtesy.”_ It had not been John’s choice to involve Mycroft, but one of his moles has reported back to the British government after Sherlock had suffered his bad reaction to the stress of his injuries, medication and fever.

 

That battle is over and John is able to look after Sherlock as closely as he needs. He is still in favour of moving his friend to Baker Street as soon as he is stable. But, that decision is days off, since Sherlock has yet to wake coherently or eat on his own.

 

John is making notes about Sherlock’s progress on his laptop, the heavy thing blowing hot air onto his lap and making his thighs sweaty. A hesitant knock comes at the wall—as there is no door, only a curtain—and he recognises Mrs Hudson’s voice announcing her arrival.

 

Mrs Hudson is wrapped up tight against the cold, a hand-knit scarf draped across her shoulders and a soft wool cap on her head. She bustles across the room and John scarcely has time to place his laptop on his chair before he’s getting a hug from her. His arms wrap around her, grateful that she’s come.

 

“Mrs Hudson, it must have taken you hours to get here,” he says as the hug ends. “Here, sit for a while,” he moves his laptop out of the way and places it on Sherlock’s tray table, “sit next to him, it’ll be good for him to have your influence nearby.”

 

Mrs Hudson laughs at that, “Yes, well he never listens to me, so might not do us any good.” When she sits down, she looks over the quiet, still figure in the bed, her words fading as she takes in the extent of injuries.

 

John puts a hand on her shoulder, reassuring her. “He’s just under sedation,” he says. “He has a fever and he got a bit excited before, so we’ve just decided to let him rest for a couple of days.” Mrs Hudson appears sceptical and John continues, “He looks peaky, I know, and a bit—well, a lot bashed up, but he’s going to be fine. He’s had worse, right?” It’s a poor attempt at comfort but it manages to make him feel better at least.

 

Mrs Hudson places her hand over Sherlock’s mottled one. “Sherlock,” she says, managing to sound both stern and soothing at once, “Don’t give these doctors any trouble, young man, especially not John. He knows what’s best.” John looks on as it appears that Sherlock is a little boy, sick at home and being tended to by his mother. John has never met the infamous Mummy that Mycroft speaks of so highly, but Mrs Hudson through the years has looked after Sherlock just as well as his own mother might. The few hours’ drive by taxi to this remote hospital is more proof of the dynamic.

 

Mrs Hudson turns just slightly, still holding Sherlock’s limp fingers. “Oh dear, he does look quite a mess, doesn’t he?” she says, tutting fretfully. “Have those awful men that did this been found?”

 

John is relieved to answer affirmatively. “They were arrested yesterday,” he says, “all who were involved. And from what I hear, they gave a very detailed confession.” John doesn’t have to wonder why the criminals were so eager to talk. Having Mycroft on the war path and breathing down their necks ought to have been incentive enough.

 

Finally releasing Sherlock’s hand, Mrs Hudson brings a thermos out of her large handbag and passes it to John. “I’m sure you were getting weary of that dreadful instant stuff, so I brought you some tea from home.” As John had requested, _as long as it’s not too much trouble, Mrs Hudson,_ she has also brought a small suitcase with a change of clothes and a few toiletries.

 

John pours the still-warm tea into a fresh cup and gulps it down. “I will say it again, you are a Saint, Mrs Hudson,” he says, truly grateful. “Now, if only this one,” he nods at Sherlock, “will get his act together, we can all get back home.” Even spoken as banter, the sentiment makes his heart clench up. A few days of looking at Sherlock, who manages to be both pale and darkened with bruises, is more difficult than John would admit to anyone. The thought of losing his friend permanently is unthinkable.

 

____________________

 

Mrs Hudson has left after staying and fussing over everything including the socks on Sherlock’s feet—apparently, they were dirty and the nurse should have cleaned them—and John settles back into his chair to keep vigil once more. The vigil quickly becomes a nap, as the comforting tea and smells of home and baking have calmed him down in more than one way.

 

Sherlock, who has always had bad timing since John has known him, wakes him up at half past two in the morning.

 

John wakes up to hear his name rumbling like the purr of a tiger, and then stopped short with a sharp intake of breath. John instantly responds, “Yeah?” forgetting for a moment where he is and what the significance of his name being uttered is. When it dawns on him, he feels like he’s been struck by lightning and he is fully awake in seconds. “Sherlock? Are you okay?” he asks, standing over his friend’s bed.

 

Sherlock’s eyes are open, bright with fever, but open, and they focus on John steadily. John can see that he’s taking in everything, all the sensations in his body, his surroundings, the bloody lines on John’s face while the two of them sit there in silence. Sherlock’s brain is incredible, seeing and sensing the smallest details that come together to mean something.

 

“You came after all,” Sherlock says, and his voice is incredibly hoarse.

 

John is speechless for a moment. “What?” He’s nearly snapping at Sherlock for that remark. “Of course I came. I sent for help as soon as you phoned me.”

 

Sherlock nods once and seems to find that painful, so doesn’t try it again. “Of course,” he replies. “And you’ve stayed. At least last night you did.”

 

John wants to blame the hospital for why he hasn’t been here constantly, but leaves it. “Yes, I stayed the night. You were sick and very feverish. In fact, you still are.” He confirms this by placing his hand over Sherlock’s forehead, causing Sherlock to recoil.

 

“Stop it,” he groans. “No fussing.”

 

“Alright.” John holds up his hands defensively. It’s taking a lot out of him to resist placing his hands all over Sherlock to make sure all is in order, that everything is on track to recover. That he’s awake and alive and not delirious. “Want some tea?” he offers, fumbling for a way to help.

 

“Yes,” is the reply, croaky and a bit entitled.

 

John goes to the canteen, picking up Sherlock’s tea and a coffee for himself. He hurries back to the ward, convinced that when he returns, Sherlock will be rambling or unconscious again.

 

Instead of that, Sherlock’s doctor is there, explaining bluntly that if his infection doesn’t respond to the medications, he will require more surgery to clear it out manually. Sherlock is scathingly pointing out that if Dr Hale weren’t so incompetent and had done the procedure correctly in the first place, he wouldn’t be having any post-operative issues.

 

John steps in. “The fever is better,” he points out. “So hopefully, it won’t come to that, Sherlock.”

 

“It _won’t_ come to that,” Sherlock contends, “even if it worsens. I refuse any further surgery.” He’s pouting like the children John has to give jabs to.

 

John lets it go for now, not going to argue with a man who is stubborn on a good day, and raving and belligerent when he’s ill. Dr Hale explains the drugs he’s prescribed, asks if Sherlock has any concerns, which earns him a railing he clearly hadn’t expected, and he leaves in a hurry.

 

With a sigh, John sits next to the bed, giving Sherlock a displeased look. The lecture he’s intending upon is stopped when Sherlock speaks first, sounding young and fragile. Vulnerable.

 

“I don’t want to be sedated again,” he says. “Do not let them operate on me for any reason.”

 

“Sherlock…” John starts.

 

He’s interrupted. “I don’t like feeling confused and I hate not knowing where I am and what is happening.” John remembers Sherlock in the midst of a flashback, begging for John, even though he was right there, and his stomach clenches painfully. Sherlock looks like he’s about ready to bolt from the room, wires and all.

 

“Fine,” John agrees, mostly to calm him. “No more sedation.”

 

Sherlock relaxes marginally into the bed and their discussion turns lighter, Mrs Hudson’s latest suitor and the post-mortem tongue experiment Sherlock will have to start over when they get back home. John keeps silently praying he won’t have to break another promise.


End file.
